Chapter 4 - THE EMPTY COFFIN
The cemetery was completely silent, save for the relentless, freezing rain lashing against the marble headstones.
Normally, an exhumation required court orders, judges, and weeks of bureaucratic red tape.
Vincent DeLuca didn't do paperwork.
It was three in the morning. Four of Vincent's most trusted men stood in the mud, shovels in hand, working under the harsh glare of portable floodlights.
I stood under a large black umbrella held by Marcus.
I had begged Vincent to let me stay home with Leo.
"Whoever is doing this knows where you live," Vincent had said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Your son is being guarded by ten of my best men at the compound. You stay with me. You are the only link I have to Thomas."
So here I was, standing in a graveyard, watching men dig up a murdered mafia boss.
Vincent stood at the edge of the grave, the rain soaking through his expensive wool coat. He didn't use an umbrella. He just stared into the muddy pit, his face a mask of stone.
Clank.
The sound of metal hitting heavy wood echoed through the night.
"We hit it, Boss," one of the men called out, wiping rain and sweat from his eyes.
"Open it," Vincent commanded.
My stomach churned. I covered my mouth with my hand, terrified of what the rotting wood would reveal.
Marcus tensed beside me, his grip on his flashlight tightening.
The men used heavy crowbars to pry the muddy, water-damaged lid of the coffin upward. The wood groaned and snapped under the pressure.
With a sickening crack, the lid gave way.
The floodlights illuminated the inside of the silk-lined casket.
I closed my eyes, bracing for the sight of bones and decay.
But a loud, sharp gasp from Marcus made my eyes snap open.
Vincent didn't gasp. He fell to his knees in the mud.
The coffin wasn't full of bones.
It was completely, utterly empty.
"No," Vincent whispered, his hands gripping the muddy edge of the grave. "No, I saw them put him in here. I watched them lower the box."
"Boss," Marcus said, his voice trembling. "Look at the silk."
I leaned forward.
The white silk lining of the coffin wasn't just empty. It was ripped in several places.
But it wasn't ripped from the outside in.
The fabric was torn and clawed from the inside out.
"He wasn't dead," I whispered, the horrifying realization washing over me. "When they buried him... he was still alive."
Vincent let out a sound I will never forget. It wasn't a cry of anger. It was the agonizing wail of a brother realizing he had left his own blood to suffocate in the dark.
"Who signed the death certificate?" Vincent demanded, turning his terrifying gaze toward Marcus. "Who was the coroner?!"
"Dr. Aris," Marcus said quickly. "But he retired ten years ago, Vincent. He moved to Florida."
"Find him. Now."
Before Marcus could pull out his phone, a loud, echoing crack shattered the silence of the graveyard.
One of the floodlights exploded in a shower of sparks and glass.
"Sniper!" Marcus roared, shoving me hard to the muddy ground and drawing his weapon in one fluid motion. "Get down!"
Another shot rang out, chipping the marble headstone inches from Vincent's head.
Vincent didn't flinch. He didn't even duck.
He drew his own gun and stared into the darkness beyond the trees.
"Show yourself!" Vincent roared into the rain.
But no one answered.
Marcus grabbed my arm, dragging me through the mud toward the safety of the armored SUVs parked on the gravel path.
"Keep your head down, Claire!" Marcus yelled over the pounding rain.
We made it behind the heavy steel door of the SUV. Vincent’s men returned fire into the tree line, their muzzle flashes lighting up the dark cemetery like a strobe light.
Then, just as quickly as it started, the shooting stopped.
Silence rushed back in, heavy and ringing.
Vincent walked backward toward the cars, his gun still raised, his eyes scanning every shadow.
"They’re gone," Marcus panted, checking his weapon. "It was a warning."
"They didn't shoot to kill," Vincent said quietly. "If they wanted me dead, I'd be dead. They shot the light."
Vincent walked around to the trunk of his SUV.
He froze.
"Marcus," Vincent said softly.
We cautiously walked over to where Vincent was standing.
Resting on the trunk of the car, completely untouched by the rain, was an old, heavy leather coat.
It was the same coat from the video.
The coat J.D. had been wearing the night he was shot.
Vincent reached out with a trembling hand and touched the damp leather.
He slipped his hand into the deep side pocket.
His fingers closed around something small and stiff.
He pulled it out and held it under the dim glow of the remaining floodlight.
It was a ferry ticket.
Stamped with a date.
"Tomorrow," Vincent read aloud, his voice hollow. "Pier 44. Midnight."
But that wasn't what made my heart stop.
Pinned to the back of the ticket was a small, plastic ID card.
It was my ex-husband's driver's license.
May you like
And written across Thomas’s smiling face in thick, black marker was a single word:
TRADEOFF.
